


The Twin Peaks Case

by callmedok



Category: Gravity Falls, Twin Peaks
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines joined the FBI to make a difference. Now, for the last year or so, he's been tracking down a serial killer. When the next death is in Twin Peaks, Oregon, he's confused by the sudden deviation from the files he's been looking at. But he goes without much question, because this could be the moment when the entire case changes.<br/>He didn't know how right he was.<br/>Twin Peaks is idyllic on the surface, but even his brother Stanley knows something is strange about Laura Palmer's death.<br/>And there's even more stranger things out in the forest, where people are afraid to go alone after dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins With A Cup Of Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! This is going to be a fusion of Twin Peaks and Gravity Falls, if that isn't already evident. I will be keeping some Twin Peaks characters, adding in some of the Gravity Falls folks such as Manly Dan and his family, Soos and his abuela, etc, as it fits the story. Most of the warnings will deal with Twin Peaks canon, and some of Ford's experiences as an agent. This is rated mature due to discussion of murder, violence, and various not good implications that go along with the Twin Peaks canon. There will be discussion of disturbing things, but no real graphic depictions.

This entire mess begins on the last week of August in 1982, up in Twin Peaks, Oregon.

The stage was set about ten years earlier in 1972, and perhaps even longer before that for what was going to happen. The underbelly of the small town finally rearing its ugly head, left to fester for far too long escaping the notice of those entrusted to protect it.  
It lasts until August 2012, as the summer once again comes to a close in that little logging town of Twin Peaks.

This story begins, and ends, with coffee.

  
*****

  
“Pines! You’re wanted by the Chief.” Someone yells across the bustling room, and Stanford’s smile drops a bit as he’s forced to set down the coffee he’d barely took a sip of. Hazards of being on the floor today, rather than in the general office area. You either yell to be heard, or tell people where you are in advance so you actually can learn what the hell is going on before you walk into the Chief’s office.

But he’d been done looking at the files today, every detail of the photos already ingrained in his mind. He needed to get out of his office, away from the case, if only to lose himself among his fellows.

He shares a ‘what can you do’ sort of look with the other agent in the break area, as well as an apologetic shrug as he sets his cup in the sink. The agent waves it off all good naturedly, and Stanford starts making his way cautiously to the other side of the room. This endeavor require a fair amount of weaving and dodging around people and stacks of paper, files moving from cabinets to desktops and to the floor and into in-boxes and out-boxes all over.

It’s hectic, but at least there are signs of progress being made and things being done.

He makes a mental note as he sidesteps a person from the mail room with their giant basket to make a run down to his P.O. Box later, see if Ma or Shermie or Stan have sent anything in the last few days. It’d be nice to have something new to read, something warm and familiar when things have felt so odd.

Lately his dreams had been resulting in sleepless nights, where he ended up sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the files laid out in front of him as he tried over and over again to figure out what the next move might be. Then his alarm would go off, somewhere in that early morning haze, and he’d rub at his eyes and the coffee would be cold and anywhere from two to five hours would have passed staring at those damned files, trying to see any other connections that hadn’t been there before.

He also made a mental note to set up an appointment with a therapist, as he paused outside the Chief’s door to smooth down the front of his suit briefly. Maybe that would help.

Gordon Cole, the Regional Bureau Chief of this division, is at his core a good man from what Stanford has gathered the last few years working with him. A bit on the loud side, yes, and perhaps a bit strange, but who is Stanford to judge him? The man cares about his agents, their health after a bad case, which is markedly better than some of the instructors at the Academy had been.

When Stanford enters the office Cole looks up from a paper in front of him, and says “PINES! GLAD HENDRICKS FINALLY TRACKED YOU DOWN. MIND SITTING DOWN? I HAVE SOMETHING PRETTY BIG TO TELL YOU.”

Another observation, concerning Gordon Cole: he was practically deaf, and combatted said deafness with large hearing aids. However, as they didn’t help very much, he yelled most of the time to hear what he himself was saying. And so, other agents had to yell as well while in conversation with the Chief.

“THERE’S BEEN A SIMILAR DEATH REPORTED SOMEWHERE UP IN WASHINGTON STATE. DON’T KNOW IF IT’S A COPYCAT OR THE REAL DEAL, BUT YOU’RE THE MOST FAMILIAR WITH THE CASE. WE CAN GET YOU A FLIGHT INTO SOMEWHERE NEAR THE TOWN IT HAPPENED IN, BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO DRIVE THE REST OF THE WAY UP THERE.” Cole says after giving Stanford a moment to sit down.

Stanford opens his mouth as if to say something, but finds that right now there’s nothing but a bad taste in his mouth and faint surprise. The last murder had been somewhere around South Carolina, why the sudden jump from East to West? Enough time in between to travel that sort of distance, but why would the killer leave more or less their own backyard for uncharted territory?

Unless…

Maybe South Carolina had been the uncharted territory, and the killer had wanted to make a run for somewhere it would be harder to find them. Somewhere they could jump the border, not a single soul knowing because who would be hiking in the same area? Little to no one logically.  
“SO PINES, ARE YOU ON BOARD OR NOT? CAN’T SIT AROUND ALL DAY WAITING FOR YOUR ANSWER, AND THE EARLIEST FLIGHT IS IN A FEW HOURS.” Cole asks, having noted the shift in Ford’s demeanor but deciding not to say anything.

Ford runs these thoughts over and over in his mind, trying to see how logical something like this could be. A waste of resources for a copycat, or a genuine shot at getting the real murderer and making sure they wouldn’t terrorize anywhere else?

Ford makes his decision.

*****

His apartment is a rather small place, with a smaller balcony that has approximately one folding chair (weather beaten and faded from prolonged sun exposure), one small metal table, and one close-to-death plant in a flower pot sitting on top of said table. There’s no real distinction between living room and dining room, except that at some point carpet transitions into tile.

And despite the rather generous salary of an agent of the FBI, everything looks like it was picked up from a resale shop, faded and worn. Perhaps the newest looking things are the bookshelves on either side of the tv, crammed with an assortment of fiction paperbacks and various manuscripts on assorted sciences that have caught his interest over the last few years.

He stands in the doorway, suitcase at his feet, and his heart aches a bit as he surveys the picture painted before him. It isn’t much, but it’s been home the last few years. Even in the chase for the killer, he’s been away for maybe a month at the most.

Now he’ll be leaving indefinitely, until either there’s another murder somewhere else in the states or the murderer is caught.

He picks up the suitcase, drags it out, and locks the door behind him.  
At least his place won’t be rented out with the rent paid for the next six months.


	2. Airports and Postcards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Stanford's past, some postcards are flipped through, and there's a rather ominous dream on the flight to Oregon.

There’s a stack of postcards, held together with rubber bands, in the bottom of his briefcase. He would have tucked it into his suitcase, but these are… they’re higher priority to Ford.

The same level as the case files they’re tucked under, the ones that have been by his side and in his hands for months.

The postcards are from the important people in his life, the ones that keep his feet on the ground and fill his chest with warmth on the tougher days. Most of the corners are rounded off and creased from long-term handling, the ones received most recently still clean and crisp looking.

And every month, there’s always a few more cards and small letters to add the bundle, courtesy of his family. Most of them, anyway.

_(What kind of living is being an agent of the FBI? You’re gonna get shot and killed, what kinda waste of a brain would that be? You could contribute so much more, but you’re wasting it on this,_ some echo of Filbrick Pines says, tall and imposing even years later in Ford’s memory. The acceptance letter is crumpled in a fist, a finger pointed accusingly at Ford’s chest and even now Ford can remember how his chest felt like it was going to cave in that evening, how scared he was as he said _I’m going, and you can’t stop me. Ma’s already helping me pack,_ and the look of disgust on Filbrick’s face made him want to curl into himself, make himself smaller and somehow go a few seconds into the past so he never said anything at all.)

There are three postcards not in the stack however, instead tucked and folded carefully into his wallet.

One is a note from his mother that arrived a few days before he graduated from the Academy. It’s full of words of love, congratulations, how she’s so proud of the man he’s become. How she wishes she could be there, and she’d like a picture for the scrapbook if he manage it. Another is a sketch Shermie did a few years back when he finally hit junior high, of him and Stanley and Stanford all together. A moment that never actually happened, because Stanley and Stanford looked so much younger than they actually were. Based on Ma’s scrapbook no doubt, and the faint memories of Ford before he moved out properly.

The last one was from his brother Stanley, received a few days before the choice that changed his life.

A postcard marked as sent from Nebraska, god only knows how Stanley ended up there, that says _‘Whatever you do, I believe in you. If anyone can become an agent, I know you can. You got the brains, and hell, you got my dashing good looks. Who wouldn’t be sweet-talked by you? (That’s a joke if you can’t tell, Sixer.) Write you soon, should be able to send another one before on the move again.’_

For some reason it’s that one postcard that gave him the strength to send out the application to the FBI, the idea that even if Ma didn’t know yet and he was terrified to tell his father there was at least one person out there who believed in him. So as a reminder of how he got where he is, how big of a role his brother played in helping him, he keeps it with him.

(Sometimes, it is one of the few things after a long day that can provide any sort of comfort. The reminder that there is always someone who believes, even when he feels like things might be falling apart.)

*****

_The first thing that strikes him is all the red._

_It takes a moment to register the red as curtains, floor to ceiling with thick folds, the brief panic of finding himself in an unknown area overriding any sort of recognition process. Next is the notice of the itchiness at the back of his neck, the feeling he always associates with starched shirt-collars before they can be washed, how the weight of the suit feels heavier somehow and his tie feels like a hand around his throat._

_(He should know.)_

_His limbs feel heavy as he tries to lift a hand to touch the back of his neck, try to tug at his collar to loosen his tie. Try is the operative word however, as he can barely even see a twitch in his hand. There’s a faint echo of footsteps, the curtains move slightly as someone most likely walks by._

_For the first time in quite a few months, Stanford Pines is gripped by the sudden irrational fear that he might die._

_As an active agent on duty, he’s had his share of near-death experiences in the past. A bullet too close to where bulletproof vest met normal fabric, a knife shoved somewhere soft and fleshy and tender…_

_This is different though._

_There is a certain miasma of futility and desperation soaking the entire space, an almost irrational urge to ask how many others have been trapped in this chair, what happened to them when however was behind those curtains decided to finally reveal themselves. Coupled with the inability to move, no sound able to escape his mouth beyond his breathing, and it all feels very final in a way he can’t find words to describe._

_Not wanting to stare at the red any longer, his eyes drop to the floor. Thick zig-zagging bands of black and white, looking crisp and freshly tiled like they’ve never been trod upon since the day they were installed. When he closes his eyes in an effort to center himself, he can’t shake the mental image of endless red curtained hallways weaving together to form a labyrinth, nothing to indicate where he is or where to go besides the opposite direction of the footsteps he can hear even now._

_The very footsteps he swears have been getting closer in the time his eyes were closed._

_Suddenly he feels a hand drop on his shoulder and he flinches away as if burned, and-_

“Excuse me sir, but is this your stop? We need to start boarding the next set of passengers, and we have to make sure everyone who needs to depart in Bellingham does so,” says one of the flight hostesses, voice steady and calm as Stanford looks around frantically to gather his bearings. Her badge is for the right airline, other flight hostesses behind her helping the last few stragglers get off the plane and collect any remaining trash, his briefcase is still safe at his feet and his suit jacket still in his lap.

Everything is as it should be he reassures himself, loosening his tie a small bit before speaking.

“Ah, yes it is, miss. Thank you for waking me up. I’ve had a long night, and if I had missed this stop it would have become even longer,” he says with a smile of gratitude, “I’ll be on my way in a moment. Which carousel will have the luggage from this flight?”

He tries to drown the dream of the red room with zig-zag flooring under this mundane interaction, getting directions for where to go for luggage and a nice little place for a bite to eat before he heads to car rental. He thanks her again after pulling on his suit jacket, taking his briefcase, and he is relieved that never once did she say anything about his six fingers on each hand.

It’s a small thing, a variation of basic social decency, but it helps ground him in reality after that unsettling experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did look up what airports in Oregon would have been in use in the 80s, and Bellingham was one of the places that had an appropriately sized airport. Fun facts with the author! Stan and Ford do have a stronger bond in this AU, because the idea is that Ford took the accident with his machine as a sign to pursue science in a different form, which led him to forensics and using it to help people. Filbrick was still horrible, so Stan did end up kicked out but Ford and their mom did send him stuff and keep in contact.   
> And I promise, this fic does have happier moments coming up. Just have to set the stage first.


	3. 'Stanley...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford talks about miscellaneous things as he drives up to Twin Peaks. There's an oddity about the sheriff he'll be working with, but it's not a big thing. And, we get a bit about Ford's past injuries.

“Stanley,” he says into the tape recorder, “I’m on the road to Twin Peaks at six PM, about an hour since I got off my flight in Bellingham. I stopped for food at a diner about twenty minutes from the car rental place, and to be honest found the coffee rather lacking. Alright for the purpose of caffeine requirement, but it felt like it coated my mouth with some sort of burnt aftertaste. I tried to wash it out with some of the soup, but no matter how good chicken noodle can be it didn’t really get rid of it.” He shudders with the recollection, at the sheer disgust that resulted from the aftertaste of burnt coffee grounds mixing with chicken broth. 

“As past encounters with gas station coffee have been abysmal, I have to hope that the caffeine from dinner will be enough to see me through. However,” he added on as an afterthought after a moment of silence as he lined up his thoughts, “a snack of some sort wouldn’t go amiss when I get some more gas. It’s about four to five hours until I reach Twin Peaks, and if I’m correct I can get a bit over halfway there on a full tank. The local extension of the bureau was kind enough to lend me this car, and I intend to return it in the condition I received it.” 

There’s comfort in speaking to the tape recorder, a habit he picked up from a fellow agent when they worked together briefly on one of Ford’s first cases. The agent might have actually been required to send the tapes to someone as a replacement for traditional reports, but Ford didn’t send his. He used them to remind him of things he might’ve forgotten to add to his case reports, but also a way for him to feel for a few moments his brother was with him again.

Of course there were no snarky comments, no one in the passenger seat to fiddle with the radio or spout out horrible puns, but phone calls were few and far between with long distance prices and Ford being yanked wherever his next case took him. This was a decent substitute, even if Ford would never admit to it if anyone ever asked.

Plus, if the PO Box address Stan had maintained for the last few years was correct, he’d only be an hour or two of driving from Twin Peaks. The closest they’d probably been in ten years, geographically speaking.

Maybe he could visit Stan on a day off, it’d be nice even if it was a horrific incident that lead to their paths crossing so closely.

“In regards to the case, Stanley, there is a bit of an odd thing about the Sheriff who reported it. Funnily enough, their last name is Pines. No first name as part of the report placed, more focused on the exact names of the witness who recovered the body and the name of the victim. Good attention to relevant detail, already forming a suspect list for a murder that occurred only a day ago, but… It’s quite the intriguing coincidence, isn’t it? Pines isn’t exactly uncommon, but imagine it… ‘Hello Sheriff Pines, I’m Agent Pines sent by the Bureau to assist in this investigation.’ It should be interesting, to say the least. I’m going to leave it here for the moment, as I want to focus on this leg of the journey rather than lay out the differences of the Palmer case compared to past case files.”

He hits the ‘off’ button on his tape recorder, tosses it into the passenger seat where his briefcase lays.   
To be honest, he didn’t have the full file yet. Just the bare bones about the body of a relatively young woman named Laura Palmer being recovered wrapped in plastic sheets from a nearby body of water, possibly strangled based on the marks around her neck. Already it read so similarly, just needing confirmation of some of the more unsavory details.

But until he had the real deal, a full case file, he can only make hesitant guesses. It could be a copycat still, but the full details of any of the murders had never been put in the papers. He’d still stick around even if it was copycat, his duty as an Agent to protect the people, but if it was the real serial killer…

(The change in altitude made the scar on his side ache, a dull throbbing pain that ebbed and flowed, made him wish he had some painkillers on hand. Not the work of the killer, but the last long-term job relating to this string of cases… he’ll need backup if it’s the real killer, if the Sheriff is unwilling to assist. And by then, the killer could be long gone.)

If it’s the real killer, he’ll do what he has to do, as long as it results in the son of a bitch unable to harm another life. Even if it means his own is threatened in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Sorry for the wait, got caught up in real life things and wasn't sure how to end this bit. But on the upside, guess who's now the proud owner of both Twin Peaks seasons on DVD? Won't have to rely on Netflix to fill in the gaps of the story now we're closer to the real meat of things.
> 
> There's some more nods to Twin Peaks canon in the background with Ford's past, re:the agent who gave Ford his tape recorder habit, and why Ford has an injury in his side. Hope those are some fun little things.


	4. Unfamiliar Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford finally gets into town, and makes some mental notes to later be acted upon.

He gets into Twin Peaks a bit after ten, earlier than expected but it’s not like he’ll complain. If he’s planning to get an early start, up by seven for breakfast and to the sheriff’s station by eight, he’ll take all the sleep he can get. 

(But there’s no guarantee the dreams will cease even in new surroundings. No guarantee he won’t wake up gasping for breath with the ghost of a hand wrapped around his throat or a flare of pain in his side where a knife once dug in deep.)

The town seems average, if a bit isolated. Nearest towns anywhere from an hour to five hours away by driving, some streetlights dotted around but nowhere near as much as you would find in a city neighborhood. He drives past the R&R Diner, according to the red neon sign in their window. Someone’s inside cleaning tables, but even he can’t look away from the road while driving to figure out more details. The neon seems to add a sinister tinge to the black tarmac, but he shoves the observation aside as nerves.

Unfamiliar town, unfamiliar people, it’d take him a little while to adjust to something like this no matter the circumstances.

He passes a gas station with a garage right next to it, the windows of the garage lit up. An outside light reveals the name of the garage, ‘McGucket’s Mechanics and Engineering’, and he makes a mental note to visit at a later time.

Despite having gone to college mostly for forensics and other sciences that complimented his choice to become part of the FBI, he could appreciate engineering. Hell, for a good part of high school he’d wanted to go into engineering himself. There was something so satisfying in building something with your own two hands, something made of metal and wiring that could come to life the second you hit a button or flipped a switch. 

He finds himself smiling a bit with nostalgia, recalling the excitement of going to a junkyard and scavenging all the parts he could to use for a science fair project. How he and his brother hauled it home in the back of Stan’s car, their ma panicking when she got off the phone and wandered into the kitchen only to find the counter completely covered with junk and lingering grease. They’d gotten a tongue lashing after that, but the two of them had just laughed it off because in the end this was just a speedbump in Ford working on his project. He’d make something spectacular out of these scraps, with the tools they had scrounged from the pawnshop to initially work on the Stan O’ War.

(But something went wrong, some kind of miscalculation with an internal mechanism, and everything went up in smoke-)

While paused at a stop light, he takes advantage of the faint light filtering in from a nearby streetlight to take a glance at a paper in the passenger’s seat. Directions to his lodgings for this period of time, and he almost berates himself for not studying them beforehand. But the town seems more or less dead at this time of night surprisingly, so he can linger for a few moments in the road.

The Great Northern Lodge, run by the joint efforts of the Horne and Northwest families. It’s where he’ll be resting his head for the next few weeks, and perhaps even months if this case runs longer than expected. Room 315, booked on the Bureau’s payroll, and according to the rough instructions at most he’s twenty minutes away.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he sets the directions aside. Seems straightforward from here, and he’ll even be able to get a glance at the sheriff station on the way up. Two birds with one stone, being at the Lodge means he’ll be able to get to the station easier than if he was based on the outskirts of town.

The police station’s lights are dimmed, but there’s a blonde woman in uniform at the front desk talking to a tall man in uniform (the man might even be taller than Ford himself, which felt rather strange to think about), and something in him settles. It might sound irrational, but some part of Ford expected only the assistance of the sheriff and deputy. He didn’t expect the potential of an expanded department, even if it might just be four to five extra people at most. Some lingering preconceptions of what small-town police forces looked like, bare bones unless absolutely necessary and rarely needed.

When he pulls up to the Great Northern and can finally get out of the car, he takes in a deep breath of air. The coldness makes his chest hurt, his throat ache, and it makes him wish for the tang of salt that a winter morning on the beach would bring. It feels like part of his childhood in this moment, and how he wishes things could have been different.

He leans over to the passenger seat to retrieve his briefcase and tape recorder, tucking the bulky plastic machine into the pocket of his trench coat. It’s a comforting weight against his leg as he closes the door, moves towards the trunk to retrieve his luggage. It’s a moderately sized thing with signs of wear and tear, but it’s been around for six years and by now he can list by memory all the things he can fit inside: Three suits, a set of casual clothing, two dress shoes and a pair of boots. Not to mention a secondary holster, and some extra ammo. If he’s really pushing it, he can do two winter coats and some extra case files if they don’t fit in his briefcase.

So he lugs his suitcase into the Great Northern, looking for all the world like a traveling businessman passing through. It helps he isn’t called agent at the front desk when he checks in, though he isn’t sure how to feel about the half-asleep person manning the front desk. In the end though, he accepts the keys to Room 315 and heads for the elevator.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day, he may as well enjoy these scant moments before people recognize his face and remember him as Agent Pines. That’s a problem with smaller towns, no matter how low-key he tries to stay during an investigation, the locals start to put the pieces together about why a six-fingered man is seen with officers so often.


End file.
